We foster our trauma like a broken-legged cat hiding in a cardboard box, left there to rot and die. We wear our wounds like medals of honour- my pain is deeper than your pain, I’ve struggled more than you’ve struggled; I’ve bent and broke and let the dick of the world slide forcefully down my throat, tenaciously submissive, I was. Who are we out-paining? Why do we chase these dragons? With all the wondrous things that the universe has sprung, why do humans hunger for such terrible things. Are we so drawn to these dark meanderings that we speak a false narrative of our very existence? Our full understanding of life hangs in the balance, the value of our death can only be measured by what we- as our own mini universes- have created in the years we breathed. And as so-and-so said such-and-such regarding the meaning and purpose of man’s existence, have we lived up to the standards of our philosophical brethren? If Aristotle or Carl Jung were alive today, what would they say about social media and the lens our world at large sees through? These are the questions that plague poets and artists and recluses. Perhaps these little strolls in this foggy realm of pondering art and creativity are our ways of giving life to the abyss; perhaps we’re just trying to give our pain a sense of meaning.

Imagery by Braldt Bralds, 1983